Chapter 21: Peer in Peru

(Side note: The word ‘peer’ is better to be read in urdu or in punjabi than in English. Its meaning and context will be revealed as you delve further into this narrative.)

The dream kindled in October, 2013, when I was sipping frothy coffee, lounging in my comfortable office chair on the 4th floor of Arfa Technology park. The sun was setting in a golden blur behind me; and the never ending flow of soundless vehicles going about their day was a majestic scene, visible through the floor-to-ceiling window behind me. 

I was accompanied by my team – and, having recently visited another country, I was curious about where my juniors would want to travel if given the chance. FT, one of my project managers, expressed his desire to visit Machu Picchu. The gleam in his eyes when expressing his desire was enigmatic. So I told him that I will also visit Machu Picchu if I perchance go to South America. 

Life progressed, and a symphony of years unfolded. I found myself revisited by that precise moment once more, when I got a call from FT. It had been 10 years; he had moved to Canada and obtained his passport. He told me that he had just come back from Colombia and Peru and he could not visit Machu Picchu, – due to bad weather, their plan was cancelled, without the provision of any refund or alternative. (The Fine Print). Hearing this I felt sad, and then the sadness changed into rage and then it sparked, rekindled and then affirmed in my head. I would give his dream life. I immediately told him that I was going  to plan for Peru in the following months, and we would visit together. However it was to my dismay; he told me that he wasn’t available. I could sense that his dreams were crushed badly. 

In the last twenty-five years of travelling, I have been to multiple countries, be it with my friends, my wife, my children, parents, colleagues, or travel groups. What I have never done, though, is a solo trip where my only company is me. But I was not one to go back on my word; and now my mind had been made up. The struggle to find a way to Peru now began. Days of research yielded nothing; Peru does not have an embassy in Pakistan. I had to email Peruvian Consulates in different countries if I wanted to get a visa – and at long last, I ended up getting a positive response from Rio, Brazil, with a verbal promise from an employee in the Peruvian consulate there, that he would apply for my visa if I arrived at Brazil and I would get it within a week. It was a daring plunge into the unknown, but I was ready to take the risk. Brazil visa was also not a piece of cake either, I had to undergo a twenty minute long, grilling interview. Right before it ended, I was asked if I would apply again for Brazil, if they didn’t grant me a visa. Frustrated by the questions, I replied “Never”.

I ended up getting the visa.

I “meticulously” planned everything, purchased the tickets and booked places to stay, and then decided to forget about it till the departure date. The day arrived, and I was embraced by the tropical climate of Brazil. The country was admirable, to say the least. Ten days in different cities of Brazil passed by, but that’s another chapter for another day. I finally got the promised Peru visa. 
Now in Peru, I reached the Inca Rail office in Cusco, on a cloudy morning, 8:00 AM praying that it would not rain and I would not end up with the same fate as FT. But they said that we are going today. Expecting the infamous Inca train, I was taken aback when they instructed us to get on an ordinary bus. Two hours later, and I was still on it, dozing off and slightly annoyed. Were trains called ‘bus’ in their native language? Or had I just been scammed? Just when I thought the journey would never end, they finally offboarded us in a town named Ollantaytambo. We waited for another hour, and then, suddenly out of nowhere, a singing group of Inca people in traditional dresses appeared and escorted us to our train. Tired and sore, I was simply relieved at the sight of the actual train. It took another two hours to reach Aguas Calientes. This was the place from where we had to take buses to Machu Picchu.

Farewell ceremony on way to Inca train for Machu Picchu

Bus tickets in hand, I reached the stop. Imagine my shock when they asked me to show my ticket to Machu Picchu. The words came out of my mouth were “hain g?” What tickets? Wasn’t a bus ticket the only one needed? Apparently not, is what I thought bitterly when they pushed me out of the line and moved on to the next person. I did my research and found that there are only 2500 tickets for Machu Picchu in a day. To make matters worse, they get sold via the internet only, on a site displayed entirely in Spanish. The tickets were, of course, all sold out, considering it was a Wonder of the World which I was so haphazardly trying to visit. After more urgent calls and frantic google searches, I came to know about an information office about Machu Picchu near me.

Immediately, I hurried there and found Mr. K, the man in charge. Pleading is not my forte, but I exhausted every strategy I could think of. I told him that I was the first person from Pakistan to visit Machu Picchu, and that I came via train but forgot to buy tickets for Machu Picchu. I needed urgent help and just one ticket. Alas, it was fruitless; the only way to get a ticket, he explained, would be if somebody cancelled theirs. Half an hour passed, but no one seemed to be revoking their plans. 

Stricken, I told him about my lifelong dream of coming to Machu Picchu, and that I had spent over $10,000 to reach here. I explained how I would be the first Pakistani to pave the way for tourism from Pakistan to Peru. Ultimately, he gave in resignedly, or maybe he was just not in the mood to counter my persistent arguments. Either way, he told me he would present my case to the management only if I had a return Air Ticket for tomorrow. My ticket was, unfortunately, for the day after. With a bitter heart and consciousness, I had to lie. I told him, yes, my Air Ticket was for tomorrow. Naturally, he asked for proof. I informed him that it was printed and in my bag in my hotel in Cusco, 5 hours away. He was determined for proof, so asked for an online version. I told him I was orthodox and only had a printed copy. 

Still persistent, he insisted that I ask someone in the hotel to get the printed copy from the room. I showed him the key of the bag in my hand, and told him the hotel staff cannot open it, since I had locked it for security reasons. His last resort was calling different airline companies to find out when my flight was. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for me, he could not get any information, presumably because I booked the flight through a third party.

The Astana

Weary, he asked me to give him half an hour to figure this out. I left the office, and tried to take my mind off the worry and enjoy the views. I came across a beautiful place with a statue of Inca. Beneath it sat an old man in traditional Inca dress, selling ice creams. I sat down near him, and observed him for a while. Waves of calm radiated from him. At one point, he gave free ice cream to some children. At times, he went away for a while, leaving the stall unchecked and open. Somehow I thought it was an Astana of Peru, and that he was it’s Peer. I got ice cream from him twice and thanked him with my full two words vocabulary of Spanish. He uttered some sentences that went way over my head, but I decided to take them as prayers for my success.

The Tranquillizer

Upon returning to Mr. K’s office, he informed me that the management had decided to let me enter Machu Picchu as I had a return train ticket for today. However, I would have to buy a ticket for the next day, even though I would be allowed to go inside today. It was already 3:30pm, and I knew Machu Picchu closes at 5pm. Regardless, I decided to go ahead with it and proceeded to the following office, where a lady was selling the next day’s tickets to a long line of locals. Mr. K, fortunately, rushed me through the line by telling people that this person is from Pakistan and that he needed to get me tomorrow’s tickets before they ran out. By now, I believe everyone in the city knew that there was a certain, unfortunate tourist visiting from Pakistan. To add fuel to the fire, I realised much too late that the office was only accepting Peruvian currency. I rushed to a nearby bank and converted dollars to the currency, and, finally, got the accursed ticket.

I made my way to the bus that would take me inside. They asked me if I was from Pakistan, and when I affirmed, they called an entirely vacant bus, especially for me. A ride on that desolate bus took me to Machu Picchu in half an hour. At the ticket gate, they all shouted,

“You are Pakistan?” 

“Yes, in flesh and blood”, I shouted back, and they let me in. 

I now had a grand total of one hour to sightsee Machu Picchu with very few people. The place was eerie, but scenically breathtaking in the clouds. I thoroughly combed the place with my feet, eyes and took some pictures along the way. After the hour was over, I boarded the bus, then the train, then another bus, and then a taxi back to the hotel. It was midnight by the time I reached the hotel. Immediately, I crashed into bed, determined to get a good night’s sleep – and heal from the traumas of the day. 

Peru, it seemed, had other plans. At half past four in the morning, I was woken from a deep slumber by the sound of my phone ringing. The call was from a tour operator lady, telling me to be ready for my trip to Rainbow mountains in five minutes. She told me that she along with the rest of the group were waiting outside and that she hoped I was ready.  It took me a solid two minutes to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming, and another two to understand what she was saying. 

Earlier, on the day of my arrival to Cusco, I had been making small talk with hotel reception staff, and she asked me about my plans after visiting Machu Picchu. Being too confident, I had immediately googled “Top Tourist Places in Cusco” and found search results with pictures. One of the most popular and somewhat familiar place seemed to be ‘Rainbow Mountains’, so I told her I wanted to visit those. Naturally, she asked me if she should book my trip, and I told her to go ahead and paid, without knowing anything about it. 

The abrupt call made sense now, but all I wanted to do was cut the call and get my much needed sleep. Commitment, though, was a priority. So I immediately got up from the bed, grabbed my phone, and boarded the waiting wagon in my T-Shirt and pyjamas. It took me a couple of minutes to fully wake myself, and when I did, I was finally able to take in my surroundings. I looked around at the fellow travellers and realised that something was terribly wrong. Why were all the tour companions wearing thick jackets and hiking shoes with bags and walking sticks? Befuddled, I innocently asked the tour operator if the place that we were going was going to be cold.

“Yes,” she said, holding back a laugh. “It may even go down to -6 degrees celsius.”

That was when the gravity of the situation became evident to me. Wallet-less, warmth-less, and SIM-less, the only thing I could do then was pray I make it home alive and whole. To make matters worse, I hadn’t been to the bathroom in a dangerously long time, and the wagon showed no signs of stopping. 

It was only after a whole hour that we came to a halt, for breakfast. I raced directly to the bathroom. To my dismay, there was no water, or even toilet paper. I went back outside and asked the tour guide to provide me with toilet paper. She gave me a couple of thin tissues that did not look like they were enough. I flew here and there in search of water, and finally found myself in a kitchen-like place. There I found a gleaming, half filled mineral water bottle which resembled my saving grace. I grabbed it in haste and ran towards the toilet. I faintly heard the tour operator say something to me, but I decided I would listen to her once out of the bathroom. I had stepped half inside, however, when she came running behind me, and only then did I hear what she was shouting.

“Alcohol, it’s alcohol!!”

I flung the bottle toward her and thanked her gratefully for saving me from an ultimate cleanliness. Finally I closed the bathroom door and won the marathon. 

Then came the next problem. I needed to do something about my thin sweatshirt. I went to the owner of the restaurant and asked him for a jacket to warm up, size XXL. He looked me up and down, and then amusedly told me that he only had a Medium size sweater. Desperation was prevalent, and I could not afford to worry about size or fashion at this point in time. I told him to sell me whatever he had. He gave me a muffler, and gloves. My wallet, like aforementioned, was sitting uselessly at home. I looked into the back of my phone case in hopes of some spare change. Luck was on my side for the first time that day, because I found an entire credit card that I had kept for emergency situations. Infact, they even had a credit card machine in that dhaba. Out of sheer gratefulness I paid them as much as they asked, although it was clear that he was over-charging me. In fact, I also paid $50 more than the asked amount and told them to return me $50 as Peruvian currency, just in case.

Finally, I stuffed some breakfast and got back into the wagon, which soon reached Rainbow mountain. The breakfast made me feel nauseous, and severe sleep deprivation wasn’t making the situation any better. The Tour Guide gathered everyone together for a few instructions, which I only paid little heed to, until Iheard her say,

“…The hike will be around two hours…”

My saviour!!

At once, I knew that I couldn’t do it; not with my flimsy canvas shoes, mismatched outfit, queasy stomach, and non-existent gear. I asked her if there was any way to reach the top without hiking on foot. She gave me two options; horses, which would take half an hour to reach the top, or, a bike ride, which was faster, but obviously more expensive (Lukily $50 – cash only). I chose the latter, tempted by the promise that it would take only fifteen minutes for this to be over. I boarded the bike with an overenthusiastic driver, who took me to the top of the mountain and told me to return back there after an hour. Hands and feet numb, I took a few half-hearted pictures, knowing my wife would bash me if I didn’t, and then found a place between a friendly llama’s body heat and an Auntie selling bhunay hoay chanay. That was where I stayed, as a feeble last resort to reduce my chances of pneumonia: they seemed dangerously high. The hour passed, and I got back on the bike.

Llama – my buddy for an hour

I was clearly the first to return to the basecamp. I fervently tapped on the window of the wagon and woke the driver up, begging him to open up the Wagon for me before I become popsicle. By some miracle, the inside was considerably warmer. I settled on the last seat, and slept gratefully in the stationary vehicle for the next four hours, which was when everyone else returned from their hike.

First one to reach Rainbow mountain

I had never been more grateful for my return to the hotel; its soft bed, central heating and working bathroom were like heaven to me. The next morning I took a flight from Cusco to Lima, where I spent the day sick. Weakness had overcome my body, and I had high fever. Somehow I survived a twenty-four hour flight back to Pakistan. My fever did not recede, instead, it began to worsen. After a week, I realised something was wrong and visited the doctor. There, I found out that somewhere in the loneliness of Brazil and the cold of Peru, I had contracted a new variant of Dengue. My platelets were extremely low and I was urgently admitted to the hospital. However, I recovered in a month’s time, and then got well enough to relive the trip through writing this chaotic narrative.

Alhamdulillah, all is well that ends well.